"apathetically" poems
Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -
this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.
Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
I count;
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
nothing effects
me anymore
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
scream
want to scream
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
Apathetically
Beautifully Callous
Distant
Elegy Frees Gradual Hesitation
Insecurity Justifiably Killing Love
Momentum Nullifying Optimistic Peacefulness
Quietly Relinquishing Shared Togetherness
Unhappiness Virtually Wills
Xeroxing Yourself Zymotically
© Christopher Chronister. All rights reserved
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
delicately, our dragonfly conversations
dance in Japanese gardens,
where jewelled concrete pagoda’s
stand stilted, like
timeless geometries, in greening water
then wind rustles timidly through
creek beds and pebbled leaves;
bells ring like wine glasses at a dinner table
and we feel our arm hairs stand on tiptoes,
pricked up to weary voices
(chanting monks, those that sit in circles
monkishly chant, in unison
“there are three meanings of loneliness”)
here, chanting also, we
find ourselves again not alone
enchanted in the fragmented daylight.
but then again, I turn, apathetically, and declare
“let us rest
in the immense imagery of our imagination
for it is easier to sleep,
as rain creeps closer to our doorstep,
than to ***** barricades, levies
and trenches around our house”
Oh, but the way the light reflects upon the Japanese trees
is so splendidly delicate,
and our delicate conversations
feel all so perfect…
so now please, time, lose me
in your whisper.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Some days, I wake up flighty and itchy.
Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale.
Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.
Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.
These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.
Reminded of how you used to love me.
Reminded of how you used to hold me.
Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.
These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.
That you would still care about what I had to say.
I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol,
because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart.
And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)
But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.
Slice them away from my veins word by word.
Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.
All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.
Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?
To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.
Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.
Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.
But that just makes them worse when they surface.
Makes the paranoia worse.
Makes the anxiety worse.
Makes the self-abuse worse.
Makes me worse.
On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
,
and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.
I can spend all of my time loving you,
fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.
You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.
Some days,
The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
These thoughts and feelings
flowing through me
affecting
every aspect of my being.
My brain
receives and processes
the information
and then
reacts
No thought is needed
A highly functional automated algorithm
abiding by the learned lessons of interaction
and conditioning burnt into the once easily malleable
network of neurons that defines my personality
The heavy mask of logic and pride
so tightly wrapped
over the fabric of my true being
keeping me in this game
Yet
I chose to play
To identify
with this silly and burdensome sobriquet
To one day break free from the automated voice-mail
that responds apathetically to the glorified
archetypes, thought-forms, information
that originates from
God
creator of
signal and receiver
thought and mind
emotion and body
Once the original signal is found
a needle in a haystack
the mystery is opened
the opening of a book yet written
A beginning to all beginnings
An ending to all endings
this is you, here, now.
LIVE. BE.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
I just realized no one is listening. They never were . Why do i believe?
I know. I only need to realize. Or at least be true. This is all i have left.
Nothing.
**** you. For all your your wind wasted on hope. Did you realize there could become hurricanes? Do you even feel them now? As if. This is your creation. And you are the eye.
Believe, in your twisted logic. Begin. But...can you Spell justification. As long as you're happy. Right? Could anything be more important.
Can you say sacred? Could you even remember that word?
Has anyone a grip! Or does this all slide so easily from your hands...Unwittingly or apathetically? You all die. Crumble into dust, right before my eyes. Blow you away...
I thought you understood. I thought you would be more. You told me to have hope. You promised.
It was all a lie.
To you so white. Something thin enough to disappear. Or never have existed?! Do you say translucent? No....no. You never drew it to begin with. It was mine.
But...I just do not understand. How? How could so much effort go into, a forgotten dream? Because I guess that's all I am.
Forgotten.
Was...if ever appeared. No, my mistake here.
For defining myself in the part of you...that never was.
I am nothing, and I have never existed.
You all must be evil. I cannot conceive of an alternate. Why was it so important, for me to believe? You still insist, behind your empty eyes; you assure. That there is truth. And light. And hope and horizons.
You cannot hear these words. Or they are just shapes in air. But then why speak? I think maybe you will come up dead. For ever and always. Never another.
Here is one. Last. Thought. Before you devour. What is left. Whatever ever was, of this...me. This lie. Come to life.
Why do zombies eat the brains?
Do you think inside a corner of a fold, in a dark space, underneath many layers; they feel regret? Over what is, what they are. That maybe some microscopic flutter of muscle is conscious? Self aware. And realizes, *this should not be. This is wrong.
Here lies everything I ever held dear.*
Yes, they may want it undone. Unwound. Yet; how weak they all are; unable.
So you just...give up? Accept death in a moment. And move on.
Does that really excuse you? I am incapable. Yes, stamp your clear with that. How easy.
Nothing for more for you to do. Just **** Or shut it up. Lash out. Clear away any reminders.
The idea that more could exist...is poison.
Maybe...it is only a matter if will. I insist? So it becomes.
Eat the brains. And no one will tell you otherwise.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
A broken past molds us into what we call our present mask
and all that lingers and basks,
either feeding positive tasks or manifesting a present past
(It makes no sense, don't ask)
Attraction is distraction
Unsolvable fractions
Needing emotional extraction
Mind dribble dance
Lost in a trance, never had a chance
So used to subliminally bursting
Not used to someone witnessing me recoloring
I curl inside
I wish to hide
I crave apathy
I refuse apathy
I boycott spoon-fed darkness
But sometimes it swallows you whole
I understand the anger of an earth angel
I understand the haunting isolation when you realize you're the last of your kind
When life meets despair, inhale that coastline air
It's better to painfully breathe than apathetically impair
~ the calm after a heart wave crashes ~
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
I’m psychosexual
But somehow
A hyper-intellectual
It’s like a festival
All up in my mind
Fueled by love, lust, rage, maybe hate
Lysergic acid
Diethylamide
Hopeless dreams and psilocybe
I would entice you
To look inside
But I’d fear for your sanity
It’s no place for the blind
I once thought of ending it
Closing the blinds
On a cold winters eve
In the dead of night
The bottle in my hand
I broke the glass
No liquid came out
I was drunk off my ***
This was how I was
Or perhaps how I am
I question everyday
If this was part of the plan
Cuts all up my arm
I’ve always said self-harm
Was for the weak and twisted
With their minds tangled like yarn
But now I see truth
I’m an agnostic
All I need was proof
I’m a concrete home with no roof
I’m a writer, a brother
A musician and a lover
I’m a man and a boy
An old soul that never knew joy
She was momma’s little angel
Starry eyed with her dreams
Turned **********
******* randoms for the fiend
A hopeless romantic
His heart sealed up hermetically
He strung himself up when she spat out
“You’re pathetic”, apathetically
What a broken society
It’s the norm to suffer
It’s a personality flaw
To give a **** about another
This is why I’m insane
You see why I’m a ******* ******
Always getting caught up screaming
“I’m just trying to do the right thing, you know?”
A semi-schizo voice
I’m perpetually trying to shut up
Showing compassion for others
Only made me an altruistic ******
So now you see
What happens when you read in-between
These are my minds insides
I hope they made you scream
But I only brought you to the doorstep
Would you dare to step in?
All I can tell you is
I never made it out
There are true monsters within
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
After an accident, people always talk about how they are “lucky to be alive.” I’ve always felt the opposite. If I were lucky I would have been stuck down by some Godly force years ago, not missed death by mere inches. So I guess I’m praying for a new kind of miracle. A cancerous, twisted metal, kind of miracle.
As much as it seems like I want to die, I’m not completely suicidal. I’ve just embraced the reality of death much too soon. And I’d rather be a free soul than trapped in some rib cage. There’s a difference between wanting to die and living apathetically.
I’m impatiently awaiting my expiration date. As it inches closer and closer I begin to lose my grip on my surroundings. I’m starting to worry that one day I’ll wake up and life will be indistinguishable from the dreams in which I fly. Fearing I may vault from the rooftops, only to come hurling downward. To become nothing more than another statistic.
I wake up and face the harsh reality that I am still living in a world without purpose and it hurts. It ******* hurts. I’m so tired of merely existing. If I can’t live to the fullest, give me death.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 1:16 AM UTC
Not too long ago but the wisdom still alluded me
And not be Frank, I was never one for the Ocean and sand.
So the salt in my lungs, your gaze into my eyes was new to me.
Scared but not enough to tell you, I took your hand.
(The waves felt good on my coarse skin.)
No TVs there, it was Remote.
The locals wagered on a pair of dice.
Coladas with two cubes a pair of ice.
I was living in, and you are my Paradise.
Everything I wanted and more, but still not willing to sacrifice
(I rebel, I rebel)
All that was asked was reciprocation.
She said” Boy just say my name, that’s all I want”
“ Show me joules. Life, Love, and Dedication.”
Told her “ stop trippin” She said ”why you front?”
(Time Passed)
All that was asked was reciprocation.
But society’s serpent wouldn’t let me. ( Boys aren’t supposed to feel)
Eve’s whisper led me to condemnation. ( No room for my pride)
Wiped the Salt water from my eyes “Just don’t forget me.” ( she apathetically pointed at the door)
The rain fell
… I’ll never forget raindrops I felt, that night I plead with you
Same raindrops I felt that first night that I kissed you.
And I cannot lie and say that I don’t miss you.
…That I don’t miss my paradise.
But – sometimes stories don’t end the way you want’m to right?
(Lost Happiness, Lingering Pain)
I miss you
Right hand to god, Left hand holding the remains of my heart.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
You understand what suits you,
Choosing from tailors present or past,
Preferring not the uniform.
Whose robes to **** this trip?
Adding their layers to the shadow below.
Fashion a style, accordingly-
Another fearless, determined Oxford man
In a pink suit.
Style a fashion, apathetically-
A filthy, disheveled codger, trudging
From one unmanageable apartment to another,
Writing music in his mind, never hearing it,
Changing the world forever.
Or,
Owning only a pair of each-
Black shoes, tights, and tops,
And seventeen brightly colored scarves,
Wear your heart on your sleeve.
The most priceless accessory for spending
Retirement in Somalia with the children.
Being choosy in dress and shadows,
Remember seasons None too original,
Choose fear or love.
Suit yourself.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
There is something
about your
fleeting fingertips
and the way
your mouth curls
resembling
how i
curl myself around
you
and your hands that
Are full
of doubt and
apathetically
****** dreams
There's something
about the way
Your smile
makes me feel
And the
way you hold
your cigarettes
to your lips
that reminds me
of how
you
sometimes
hold
me.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Elevated position
strategically sitting
following a script
she says apathetically
three words
An audience a witness
Differently they speak
a language of friendliness
and graciousness
Lying on the innocent
she spreads confusion and doubt
Around the corner
a ray of goodness manifests
She averts her head
the mirror to a heart in crystal white
and guilty
is the Satan in her eyes
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC
tv shows on mute,
mouths moving but making no assertions.
a silence that doesn’t satisfy
slipping over the air like margarine.
loneliness in stillness
The feeling before you cry
but no tears are produced,
like a dial tone
with no intention of an outgoing call.
serenity’s evil twin,
a vibrant color muted with white.
no longer deep or dark,
just with the volume turned down,
apathetically pastel.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 6:05 PM UTC
My insides are on fire
For two reasons
I'm trying so hard to hold back the words I love you
But they keep coming back up
So I wash them back down with liquor and bleach
It eats my gut feeling that I should try again
Nothing helps anymore
I watch myself bleed apathetically
I tear an opening in my skin
And invite you back inside my heart
Instead you fight your way out
Destroying every wall I put up
I'm broken without you
Why can't you see that?
Why did I have to lose you?
I feel the second burn
As I swallow my pride
And a handful of pills
I write your name on every wall
So there is no question as to who has killed me
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
Disinterested time
ticks apathetically
in the negativity of silence.
Cocooned inside rooms
on elongated days
without vanity or aspirations.
Momentary moods
meander
between boredom
and the futility of hoping
for anything
other than storms
and anonymity in the darkness.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
I can see the pain breaking through his porcelain shell and billowing out of his lips. Now he's lying with his back against the cold tile floor & his arms wrapped around his stomach just to soothe the empty void growing beneath his skin. I breathe his name in my sleep. I dream about him behind the steering wheel, the reflection of his shoulders unfolding in the rear view. We exhale a layer of smoke into the lifeless air that hangs over my bed. I can feel my lungs giving in & leaning tiredly against my rib cage. He does the same & it makes my entire body ache. Have you ever thought about how much you missed someone while lying in their arms? The vacancy in his voice shatters the flood gates behind my eyes. I'm crushed by the blankness of his stare. I remember watching his face morph into a playground when he was laughing out loud, but no pill can resurrect that expression now. All that's left are twisted veins, and worn out organs floating in a sea of champagne. I rest here, waiting for the day they sink & he gets dragged away. I spent 18 years as a calendar hung between a set of revolving doors, apathetically watching people come and go with every season that changed beneath my feet but he unhooked me from that place and whispered life into my ear every night. Now I'm looking at his shaking hands, a light shade of blue & every inch of me is weakened by the knowledge that it's his turn to walk back through.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Because you have to be;
What problems do you have anyway?
You're doing just fine, you know
No one wants to hear you complain.
You're doing just fine;
You're rotting more every day.
You're doing just fine,
No one cares what you have to say.
You're doing just fine;
There are people who have it worse.
You're doing just fine,
As long as you're outside of a hearse.
You're doing just fine;
You're brain is clawing it's way to your heart.
You're doing just fine,
As long as no one sees it rip you apart.
You're doing just fine;
You're not in pain, you've no problems.
You're doing just fine,
You're terrifyingly, apathetically numb.
You're doing just fine;
You'll last another day, another year.
You're doing just fine,
Just the same as every one else here.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
One day I am walking, walking past a stone
I see a painted pattern undiscerned.
A marbled sort of mess, in shades of grey and brown,
the mass before me wears a cloak unlearned.
And to pass it by I am so apathetically inclined…
But upon closer inspection, I am surprised to find
a stone more tightly packed than first imagined.
The large and solid mass, from distance looking pure
Brought to light is seen to be deception.
The pattern I first saw, of messy marbled streaks
reveals to be of more compound complexion.
I feel the want to approach it closer…
When I with curious eyes delight to look more closely
I can see the tiny bits of rock and bone,
sand and shining mica, and shards of shell infused
bits and pieces all combined to solid form.
I recall the recent past, when only grey had cloaked this rock,
A spot that from a distance yawned a monochrome,
And I see this spot is parcel of a hundred tiny pieces–
An unapparent universe in stone.
I am now a nose’s length from this sight superior...
The closer that I draw to this planetary exterior
The I more I see each particle discrete.
I think that if I took a hammer, and blasted it apart
Each sediment could be a stone complete.
If I am solid body, what is to say
That I could not be so composite underneath?
I could be a thousand microchosms, from the inside out;
My solid form is only the relief.
And yet that I would find companion in this ordinary stone
Is destiny of day quite unforeseen
Discovered by surprise, while in this boredom’s hefty hour,
Retracing over simple path routine.
But more surprising still, while I’m comparing flesh to earth,
I can’t decide if it more likely seems seems
That stones resemble bodies, pieces making up a whole,
Or if bodies help us view the Earth extreme.
I think I may be too up close to see.
I am walking past this stone to let it be.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
and through the pane of glass,
beyond this musky scent developed from
my living secretions of skin and blood and *****
is the pinnacle of a human condition lacking in my placid genes.
rusted fingers on clone-like machines, screens,
that scream into the ears of jaded men.
A new day!
it rings out through my entire street,
but they all drudge through grey hallways,
for cheap coffee and soggy flakes of flavourless cereal.
curtains closed to the sun.
the lines on their faces,
corrugated to match the lines on their garage doors.
and with a well-worn-in suit
their car door and shed door open simultaneously.
"no time to breathe in the spring air filling their diesel-filled shed"
I thought.
And with the roaring of the engine,
and the car-port opening wider and wider to the world,
the rusted husks of decaying metal
recoiled into their greater-shells with dissonant creaks.
and it was then I noticed this scraping of steel
had become an orchestra,
or a dreary opera, so apathetically choreographed
for all the sagged faces and fatigued hearts
in the entire drone-army of identical town-houses.
all around me, like bees burdened with their bodies worth of pollen,
one by one, their diesel-pods and people movers
left their hives.
and one by one the rusted-razor blade howling of garage doors
ceased, and the engines had pursued the black tar-road
off further into the distance.
and though the sun shined with such benevolence,
one by one, each car's sun-roof closed,
shades pulled down, blinded willingly to the light.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
The Cheshire moon smiles down on me tonight.
I’m completely out of synch with this cycle,
once again in the trough of the ever oscillating wavelength of life,
of emotion, of shifting energies, of morphing shadows casted upon by the apathetic celestial bodies who glide along through the heavens with such certainty, such staunch punctuality
as to give hope where there is none,
to know the sun will rise,
to know with certainty, with utmost faith that the moon will fall,
that the biting cold in the still night will turn into golden rays of illumination and warmth in a mere few hours,
a transformation that if somehow seen for the first time, would constitute as a miracle.
Apathetically they trudge along in their formations repeating their cosmic dances into eternity, the hands of the clock, casting shadows which decree time as we know it;
we kneel before the laws set forth, faithful and non believer, criminal and saint, man and women, there is no question of fealty,
for all subscribe to the church of time,
the tracking of shadows,
the calendar of Gregory.
The shadows smile at me tonight, but I don’t smile back.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
My heart flat-lined yesterday
At approximately 5:28 in the afternoon
The time doesn’t really matter
Nor, I suppose
Does the fact that I flat-lined yesterday
(For; I’m still alive, though not living)
But I thought it was an interesting fact
And wondered if you, too, would be interested in knowing
That I hit ground-level apathy
For everything
And for reasons beyond my control
Before you go thinking I’m depressed over you
Or over something you did
Be assured that my heart flat-lined for reasons beyond anyone’s control
Except my own
But it had to be done, I suppose
In order to feel again
The funny thing is knowing
That I could curl up on my bed and eat my favorite things
While reading the letter you wrote to me a few years ago
And fall in love with you again
With the wonderful twists my stomach makes
When you look at me a certain way
Or when I think of your lips meeting mine
But the thing that scares me the most to think about
Is that perhaps it wouldn’t be me falling in love with you again
If I have to eat my favorite things to be feel a certain way
The thing about today is that I know God is up there somewhere
But I can’t find it in me to care
I’m neither sinning nor making good
Not being tempted, not being persuaded
I simply exist
With no plans or future or decisions to make
I suppose my struggle with my favorite foods is the one exception to what I’ve described
See,
I know that God is up there somewhere
But today it’s that I just cannot force myself to care
There’s a wall between He and I somewhere in the lining of my stomach
(And though I never meant for it to be there)
It keeps Him from touching my soul
18 years of bad habits built up in my arteries
Clogging my heart from anything but apathy
But somewhere I found it in me to cry yesterday
As it flat-lined at 5:28
God made me human
With all these emotions
That I have a natural right to feel
(I know now
Why our Mother ate that which was forbidden)
So this apathy
Is a test trial of us
And though I still love you
Today
I don’t feel for you
Or for anything
Until tomorrow
(I hope)
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC